


The Nicodranas Job

by strawberry_sky



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (but ONLY that scene), Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Gen, Heist, that scene where they get the team together for one last job, the inherent homoeroticism of heists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28036077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_sky/pseuds/strawberry_sky
Summary: (NOTE: This is one chapter of what was meant to be a longer work but will probably not be completed.)Fjord is a retired grifter, emphasis on the retired. He's laying low, for a while, maybe forever. And that's fine. Good, in fact!But when Caleb Widogast shows up in his apartment with the promise of the score of a lifetime and one of the messiest but (hopefully) competent teams he's ever put together, Fjord finds himself unable to resist the lure of one last job.
Relationships: Fjord & Beauregard Lionett, Fjord & Caleb Widogast, Nott | Veth Brenatto & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20





	The Nicodranas Job

**Author's Note:**

> soooooo last summer i got really excited about writing a mighty nein heist au and then the second i had to write actual plot i stalled. so this just....is setup for a story that i think i now need to admit to myself will never go anywhere. i'm leaving myself the OPTION to continue it but please don't expect that! if that's going to frustrate you don't read this BUT if you’ve ever wanted to watch only the first 10 minutes of a heist movie, boy do i have 2500 words for you!
> 
> (if anyone else gets inspired by this and wants to do something in this world/this general concept just message me, here or at drinkingdeadpeopletea.tumblr.com! :D)
> 
> (also ty to @mithrilwren for beta-reading this for me in like. june. ily sorry i NEVER followed up on the rest of this alskdjfl)

Fjord turns the key in the lock and shoulders open the door to his apartment, running one hand through his hair as the other closes the door behind him and locks it again. It’s been a long fucking day, the Squall Eater Pub full of drunk bastards who _barely_ tipped. At least Orly was closing, and it's only just striking midnight as Fjord throws his jacket onto his secondhand couch. He doesn’t even stop to turn on the lights as he paces over to his kitchen and grabs the bottle of whiskey on the counter, pouring two fingers into a waiting glass.

Being a bartender living in a small town in a smaller apartment isn’t what Fjord expected to be doing, nor is it what he’s good at, but if he was doing what he’s _actually_ good at he’d be pretty likely to wake up with a razor blade pressed to his throat. 

Though that, of course, may still happen anyway. 

The glass of whiskey is halfway to his lips when he hears the footfall on the carpet behind him. 

Fjord pauses, slowly lowering the glass back down to the counter while his other hand silently slides open a drawer. His ears trace the footsteps, one person, moving up behind him, three, two, one--

Fjord whirls, cocking the pistol he just pulled from the drawer and leveling it directly at the forehead of the slight, red-haired man who is now standing in front of him. 

The man is unassuming, with an angular face, sharp eyes, and light red hair drawn back in a low ponytail. He’s wearing a long coat and a green scarf, and he looks for all the world like a professor at the local university stepped out for a smoke.

Fjord doesn’t lower his gun.

“What the hell, Widogast?” he says through gritted teeth. “Guy as smart as you doesn’t know how to knock?” 

“I did knock,” says the man mildly, his hands lifted to show that they’re empty. “You didn’t answer, so I let myself in to wait for you.” 

“I’m a little on edge these days, I could have _killed_ you,” says Fjord. “Still could.” 

Widogast smiles slightly, though what lies behind it is as infuriatingly inscrutable as ever. “I don’t doubt that.” 

“Yeah, and I bet there’s a crossbow trained on me from one of these dark corners, too,” Fjord mutters, casting a quick glance around his apartment for any sign of gleaming yellow eyes. 

“Not this time, actually,” says Widogast. “I wanted to talk to you alone.”

Fjord’s eyes flick back to the other man’s face. He thinks this is probably true, though whether it comes from Widogast’s confidence in his own abilities or from some sense of trust...well. 

Fjord sighs and lowers the gun, placing it on the counter and reaching again for the bottle of whiskey. “Want a drink?” 

“Please,” says Widogast, lowering his hands and adjusting his sleeves. 

Fjord sideyes him as he pours a second glass of whiskey. “You look good,” he says, holding the glass out. The last time he saw Caleb Widogast, the other con man had had a scruffy beard, unkempt hair, and a hunted look in his eyes. But he doesn’t look hunted tonight. He looks predatory. 

“Can’t say the same about you, I’m afraid,” says Widogast, taking the whiskey.

Fjord gives a rueful chuckle and runs his thumb along his chin. He does need to shave. And he probably looks like shit, in general. And he can feel the tips of his tusks against his upper lip--a new sensation, still. He sinks even lower into his affected accent-- _not_ the one he uses at the bar, the deeper one, the one that Widogast thinks is his natural voice. After five years, Fjord almost thinks so too. “Been a rough few months.” 

Widogast nods. “ _Ja_ , being on the run will do that to you. You were a hard man to track down. The databases I had to search--” 

“Why are you here, Caleb?” 

“Ah.” Widogast takes a long, slow sip of whiskey before he answers. “I have a job for us.” 

Fjord, who was expecting this, is already shaking his head. “I don’t do that anymore, you know that.” 

“ _Ja_ , this is true,” Widogast agrees, and pauses. “But you’re going to want to do this one.” 

“ _No_ , I’m not,” says Fjord. “Look, I got out of the game for a reason. I almost lost everything.” 

“I know,” says Widogast. “But this is a big one. Enough money to set all of us up for years. Enough money to get you out of your debt with the Uk’otoa.” 

Fjord flinches very slightly at the gang’s name, but he looks at the other man carefully. “That good, huh?” 

“Better. One last job, and then you can be out forever, if that’s what you want.” 

Fjord narrows his eyes. “‘If that’s what I want?’” 

Widogast raises an eyebrow and gestures around at the apartment. “I mean, you can’t tell me you’re satisfied with this?” 

“I’m satisfied with not putting my life on the line all the time.” 

“And yet you’re still in hiding.” 

“Temporarily. Besides, I actually like this apartment.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

Fjord doesn’t say anything, contemplating the brown liquid in his glass. 

Widogast steps closer. “Come on, Fjord. You miss it.” 

“How do you know that?” says Fjord, looking back up to meet Caleb’s eyes. 

“Because I would miss it, too.” 

They stare at each other for a moment in the dark kitchen. Outside, the wind picks up, sending dry leaves scuttling across the pavement. Somewhere, an owl hoots. 

They have never been good influences on each other. 

Fjord lets out a long sigh. He drains the rest of his glass of whiskey, sets it down on the counter, reaches over again for the bottle. “Who’s the mark?” 

He doesn’t have to look at Caleb’s face in order to picture the smug smile. “Lord Sharpe, out of Nicodranas. He’s opening a new amusement park, down at the pier. A sort of upscale establishment, somewhere between carnival and casino, all nautical themed. And there’s a big, distracting gala for the opening, and all kinds of money just sitting there in the vault.” 

“Lord Sharpe.” Fjord leans back against the counter with his fresh glass. “He’s kind of an idiot, right?” 

Widogast nods. “But his security isn’t.” 

“Alright, and why him? Why now?” 

“We got a tip. Someone who’s providing inside information and funding the operation. She gets a cut of the payout and to see Sharpe humiliated, two birds with one stone.” 

“Who’s got dirt on Sharpe?” 

“Well, it isn’t her information, exactly,” says Widogast, swirling the liquid around in his glass. “It’s her mother’s.” 

There’s a moment of silence as Fjord processes this. 

“Jester Lavorre?” says Fjord incredulously. “Your bankroll is Jester Lavorre?” 

Caleb nods, taking another sip. 

Fjord blows out a long breath. “She and I have a....complicated history.” 

“ _Ja_ , I know this.”

“‘Course you do,” Fjord mutters. “Two birds with one stone indeed.” And here he’d been flattered that Caleb had reached out to him instead of some other grifter. 

Widogast clears his throat, and looks guiltily down at his drink. “Three birds, actually.” 

Fjord raises an eyebrow. 

“I need Beauregard Lionett,” says Widogast slowly, still not meeting Fjord’s eyes. 

Fjord can’t stop an incredulous laugh. “Beau’s not gonna work with you.” 

“She will if _you_ ask her.” 

“Even _then_ ,” says Fjord firmly. “She still hasn’t forgiven you.” _And she shouldn’t_. The unspoken sentence hangs in the air between them.

“We need her,” says Caleb. “I’ve got Yasha Nydoorian for our main muscle, and Nott, of course, but what I have of the plan so far needs someone who can scale the side of a building and then knock out a man with their bare hands. That’s Beauregard. Without her, there’s no job.”

Fjord shakes his head ruefully, his eyes drifting involuntarily over to the dozen bottles of wine on top of his fridge. All Lionett wine. All gifts from Beau. All stolen. “Caleb, you know how stubborn she is, she--”

“ _Please_.” Caleb’s hand shoots out and grabs Fjord’s forearm, and Fjord looks back at him, surprised. There’s something like desperation in Caleb’s blue eyes. Fjord can feel the raised scar in the center of Caleb’s palm pressed against his bare skin, twin to the one he bears on his own right hand. 

“Okay, I’ll ask,” says Fjord softly, and Caleb pulls his hand away, tucks it in his pocket, retreats back a few steps. “But no promises,” Fjord adds. 

“No promises,” Caleb agrees, grabbing his drink and draining the rest of it, then coughing slightly. Fjord grins, and Caleb, to his slight surprise, grins back. 

“So when is this gala?” Fjord asks. 

“Two weeks,” says Caleb.

“Not a lot of time.” 

“No. We need to move fast. I want the team to meet in Nicodranas the day after tomorrow. Can you do that?” 

Fjord nods. “I’ll be there. Hopefully with Beau.” 

“I’ll text you the address.” Caleb holds out his hand, and Fjord shakes it. Palm to palm. 

“I trust you can let yourself out?” Fjord says, and Widogast smiles. 

“See you around, Fjord,” he says, and then drops the handshake.

When he’s gone, Fjord is left standing alone in the apartment, contemplating the two empty glasses on the counter. This is a bad idea. Objectively, this is a bad idea. But a warm, bubbling core of excitement is beginning to stir in his chest. A team, and a plan, and a reward at the end of it all.

Maybe he _has_ missed this. 

Fjord shakes his head, lets out a long sigh, and pulls out his phone. 

Beau is already half a drink in when Fjord gets to the bar. She’s bouncing her leg under the table, buzzing with nervousness and pent-up energy. Weeks with no contact, without even knowing if he’s left Zadash, and then a text at midnight saying “ _meet me at the Leaky Tap in 20 minutes._ ”

Beau was there in five. 

Now, the door swings open and a familiar half-orc figure is wiping his feet on the mat just inside the threshold. Beau half-rises from her chair, and clocks Fjord’s watchful but relaxed stance, his lack of any disguise, his willingness to pause in the doorway. No immediate threat, then. 

“Hey, stranger,” she says with a grin as her friend approaches. “What happened to you being ‘too dangerous to be around’ or whatever shit you fed me two months ago?” 

“Times change,” says Fjord, returning her grin and holding out his hand. Beau clasps it and pulls him in for a quick but tight one-armed hug. 

“Change how?” she says as they break apart, sinking back into her seat and gesturing to the pint of beer sitting in front of the empty seat across from her. 

Fjord sits down and wraps his green hands around the pint. “I’ve got a job for us.” 

Beau raises an eyebrow. “You’re back in the game?” 

“I’m not _back_ in the _game_ , it’s one job. But it’s a good one. New casino/carnival thing down in Nicodranas. Big flashy opening day gala. Vault full of money.” 

“Sounds like my kinda job. What’s the catch?” 

Fjord looks uncomfortable. “Well, first of all, Jester Lavorre is the bankroll so. That’s fun.” 

Beau laughs incredulously. “Wait, Jester Lavorre? _Your_ Jester Lavorre? Saved your life and kissed you and then you fucked off up north and broke her heart, Jester Lavorre? _That_ one?” 

Fjord groans and drops his head into his hands. 

Beau laughs again. “Okay, you’re right, I _do_ want to meet her. More specifically I want to see _you_ have to talk to her again.” 

“Thanks,” Fjord grumbles, and drains about a quarter of his beer.

“Okay, but you said ‘first of all,’” Beau says when he finishes. “What’s the _other_ catch?”

Fjord looks down at the liquid in his glass and shifts slightly in his seat. Then he sighs, and looks up to meet her eyes. “Caleb Widogast is the one who approached me with the job.” 

Beau’s smile drops. “No,” she says immediately. “I’m not working with him. Never again.” 

“Just hear me out--” 

“Widogast can’t be trusted, Fjord. He almost got me killed, almost got himself killed, almost got _Nott_ killed and you _know_ how much she means to him. I've still got the scar, look." She opens her jacket to show the spot right under the band of her athletic crop top, where the flesh is puckered with scar tissue, a small white bullet mark right in the middle. Beau has a lot of scars, but this is the deepest, and the closest, and the one that still hurts the most on rainy nights. She closes her jacket again. 

Fjord opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but Beau cuts him off. "And don't come at me with that 'it's a dangerous job' shit. It's one thing to risk your life when you agree to do it. This was different.”

“I wasn’t going to,” says Fjord. “What he did was fucked up. But it was two years ago. I’ve worked with him since then, he’s learned his lesson.” 

“Sure,” Beau mutters into her beer.

“Besides,” Fjord continues. “You won’t be alone this time. I’ve got your back.” 

Beau meets her friend’s gaze. He’s watching her carefully across the table with those sea-grey eyes of his. A professional con man who specializes in disguises and manipulating people and hiding his true self, and yet he’s one of the only people in the world she trusts implicitly.

“Alright,” she says. “One job. But if he tries _anything_ like the shit he pulled in Rexxentrum, I walk. Got it?” 

Fjord nods. “And I’ll walk with you. No questions asked.” 

“Alright then,” says Beau, picking up her pint and holding it out. “To one last job.” 

“To one last job,” Fjord agrees, clinking his glass against hers. “Oh, also,” he adds as he drinks, “Yasha Nydoorian’s going to be there.” 

Beau immediately chokes on her beer. “Fuck, man, you should have _led_ with that!” 

Across town, Caleb is just pushing open the door to his apartment when he feels his phone buzz. He pulls it out to a text from a number he doesn’t recognize, presumably a burner phone: 

_Beau’s in. See you in Nicodranas._

Caleb’s shoulders sag with relief.

“Well?” comes a voice, and Caleb switches on the light to see Nott the Brave perched in an armchair that was built for creatures much larger than her, ears covered by the hood of her oversized sweatshirt, a ginger cat curled up on the cushion next to her. “Are they in?” 

Caleb holds up his phone and waggles it. “They’re in,” he says. 

“Holy shit,” says Nott as Caleb collapses into the chair next to her and runs a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that it feels like he’s been holding in for months. “We’re really gonna do this.” 

“We really are,” says Caleb, turning his head to grin at Nott. “One last job, and then all the money we need to accomplish all of your goals, right at our fingertips.” 

Nott doesn’t look as delighted by this as Caleb had hoped. She smiles weakly, and takes a quick swig from her flask. “Ifwe can pull it off.”

“We can,” Caleb assures her. “These are the best and most talented people I know. If any team can do it, it’s this one.”

“And are we going to tell them about the...the other thing?” 

There’s a brief moment of pause, and then Caleb shakes his head decisively. “No. If all goes according to plan, they will never need to know.” 

Nott narrows her eyes. “When has all _ever_ gone according to plan?” 

Caleb doesn’t answer.


End file.
